


The Curse of Lovers' Eyes

by bajablessed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And worst of all - a happily ever after, Drama, F/M, Forced Marriage, Misunderstandings, Time Skipping and Convoluted Events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bajablessed/pseuds/bajablessed
Summary: An unlikely pair caught out alone and forced to travel together - and ultimately face the consequences of breaking etiquette which they tried so, so very hard to avoid.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel
Comments: 29
Kudos: 55





	1. Not a Good Match

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! A word of warning for this story - there's a great deal of conflict and drama of an immature nature. This is one of those "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST TALK" scenarios, if you're prepared for that. But nonetheless, I had a great deal of fun writing this story (almost three years ago, yikes!) and it has it's comedic moments and sensual allure to weigh out the frustrations. The title is inspired by Lovers' Eyes by Mumford & Sons, which fits the overall story pretty well 😏

“‘Tis an odd match at best.”

These whispered words carried only to his wife, just as Lord Malgorn intended. Lady Ithil did not remove her eyes from the bridal couple, whose hands were now being tied as was the tradition in Rohan—and a very odd tradition it was, he thought. 

“I can hardly believe the princess agreed to it, stubborn as she is,” Ithil said under her breath. Only years of practice whispering to one another when they ought not to be heard alerted Melgorn’s ears to her words, and he smiled grimly. 

“If I was a betting man, I would wager she had no choice.”

“Hmm,” his wife said. “Still, she will be queen now. A year ago, she had no such prospects.”

Malgorn grunted quietly. “Nor did this king. Quite the transformation for them both.”

“ _ Shh _ !”

A reprimanding hiss from somewhere behind them paused his next statement, echoing in the arched ceilings of Merethrond. After a dutifully reverent moment Malgorn whispered again. “I have heard it that this  _ king _ has a temper to match his new wife’s. I shouldn’t wonder if—what is his house called?—Meduseld—is in flames by the year’s end.”

Ithil glanced up at her husband, her lips pursed. “Flames? I should call Lothíriel of Dol Amroth  _ stubborn _ and  _ headstrong _ , but never violent.”

“You may never know with those Northmen,” Malgorn warned.

The hand-tying was over. The King Elessar declared something in the language of Rohan, his voice resonating, and the guests from Rohan immediately broke out into loud cheers and clapping. Malgorn flinched from the sudden noise, and around him the other Gondorians shifted uneasily. 

But he was too amused by the bridal couple to pay any attention. King Éomer was leaning his head down to his bride as if to kiss her, but the angry shake of her head was visible even to Malgorn’s sharp eyes. He snorted to himself. 

Aye, an odd match, indeed.

* * *

“At least I am  _ trying _ !” Éomer bellowed, and then ducked as another candelabra sailed over his head and clanged again the wall behind him. 

“It is a bit  _ late _ for  _ trying _ !”, was shouted back at him. Lothíriel picked up a vase, stumbling slightly—it was heavier than she thought—and with two hands lifted it up threateningly. She was not sure she could throw it—but she did want Éomer to think she would. He flinched, his eyes staring daggers at her from across the bridal chamber. 

“Do not dare,” he growled. “Cease throwing things at once—you are acting like a child!”

She gave a hysterical laugh at this, which echoed eerily in the dim room. Éomer thought she looked perfectly demented; her black hair hanging loose down her back, her eyes wild, and the thin white shift she wore billowing everywhere. But demented as she was, he could not stop his own overwhelming physical response to the sight of her. He was as affected by her as ever, and it made him as cross as ever. It made him want to kiss her and shake her all at once. 

“ _ I _ am not acting like a child,” she said, with a snarl pulling at her lips. “I am acting as  _ any _ rational woman would, if she were forced to wed a man against her will and then expected to—to—” Here Lothíriel felt a hot red flush creep up her neck—she could hardly say ‘ _ and be expected to lay intimately with him _ ’ in front of Éomer! 

“ _ Your _ will?” Éomer exclaimed, his voice rising again. “And what of  _ my _ will? You know I did not want this!”

An angry shriek strangled in her throat, and strengthened by her own fury Lothíriel heaved the vase higher and threw it with all her might at her husband. It was a bad throw, admittedly—for he caught it, and lifted a sardonic brow in her direction. 

“Thank you,” he deadpanned. 

She stomped her bare foot on the ground, but the chamber being covered in thick rugs, it was not satisfying. “You are a  _ horrible _ man!” Lothíriel cried. “And an ugly one!” 

That was a lie. She could not look at his bare chest, peeking through his nightshirt, without feeling a hot rush of emotion attempting to take over her reason. That rush was becoming familiar, as she felt it nearly every time she saw Éomer. So she forced herself to look at his face—his scowling face.

“And you are a fiendish wench! The  _ last _ sort of woman I want in  _ my _ bed!”

“ _ Your _ bed? This is  _ my  _ city! This is MY bed!” She jabbed a finger downwards to emphasize her point. Éomer was unaware, but if he had at that moment told her, ‘ _ I love you, _ ’ the shouting and fighting would have ended at once. Lothíriel likewise was ignorant. 

“Then you can sleep in  _ your _ bed,” he said nastily to his bride. “I would rather sleep in the stables than with you!”

Her bosom rose and fell with her fury. Éomer tried not to see. “ _ I _ would rather sleep in the stables than with you!” she shot back. “And I will prove it—” Lothíriel made for the door, stomping as heavily she could, but he reached out to grasp her arm tightly. 

“Oh, no,” he said, glaring down at her with the full force of his gaze, which had stalled many enemies in their tracks over the years. But Lothíriel was not cowed, though she did swallow convulsively at her thudding heart. “No!” Éomer said again, louder this time, trying not to smell her lovely, flowery scent. “I will not betray your father.”

Her lips were pouted—again, Éomer had to suppress the desire to kiss her. Oh, Béma—he could not even touch her without his body betraying him. He released her at once, pushing her away in disgust at himself. 

“You would not betray my father,” she hissed. “But you would betray us both.”

“Marriage is hardly a betrayal—” he began.

“ _ This _ is a betrayal!” Lothíriel said loudly, her hands spread. “It betrays my feelings, and it betrays yours. Neither of us should be here!” Her brows drew into a deep frown, and she added with the satisfaction of righteous indignation, “Just as you should not have invited yourself to go on that blasted ride with Amrothos and me!”

“You are right!” Éomer said, mocking astonishment. “Why, I should  _ not  _ have gone—then  _ you  _ would be lost in the mountains, probably dead by now, and  _ I  _ would be enjoying a peaceful nights’ sleep!”

“If you had not come, we would not have been such targets for horse thieves! You and your  _ stupidly  _ showy horse—” Lothíriel stopped in satisfaction; at the warning growl she could hear from Éomer, she knew she had struck a sensitive topic. If one wished to anger a Rohir, one had only to insult his steed. She tucked this information away for later. 

“You might thank me,” Éomer snapped. “For I bought back  _ your _ horse, too, and for more than I paid for mine.”

“Just as you ought’ve! It was  _ your  _ fault to begin with—and Marilla is worth far more than Firefoot.  _ She _ does not bite!”

“Firefoot only bites strangers!”

Lothíriel gave a hollow laugh. “And women who make the mistake of offering an apple!”

Two sets of eyes—one grey, one green—glared at each other. Éomer knew there would be no compromising with Lothíriel while she was in a temper. In many ways she was still a stranger to him, but he knew enough. Being stranded in the mountains together for a day and a night was quite a good way to learn about someone—but only their bad qualities, it seemed.

He sighed, running his fingers through his mussed hair in frustration. A few pieces of shattered vase—the first one she had thrown at him—fell from his head and onto the floor. To his surprise, Lothíriel jolted slightly, as if in surprise.

“Oh,” she said, twisting her hands together nervously. “I did not realize it—it would, ah, get in your, er, hair…” She trailed off awkwardly, more annoyance flaring at the way he lifted a brow down at her. 

“I do not think you were thinking at all,” Éomer said, and there was a twist to his lips. Not quite a smile, but Lothíriel thought it was rather rueful. She offered a tentative smile, and reached up to brush a few more pieces of glass away. 

“There,” she said. “I—I do not see anymore…”

Éomer sucked in a breath at her gentle fingers. He could not recall her ever touching him in such a way; touch between them had always been brusque or irritated, or as at their wedding—forced. An enhanced awareness seemed to take over his senses then. The intense silence in the room, apart from the crackling fire in the hearth, the hot heady air, leftover from their anger, spreading between them. The shine of her lovely eyes, gazing up at him with emotions he could not interpret. 

“I am sorry that I tried to kiss you at the wedding,” he said at last. As this was what had caused Lothíriel such anger at the onset of the evening, Éomer could only hope a belated apology might be appreciated. 

Lothíriel did not quite appreciate the apology. Still the indignation flared within her—how could a man think it wise to kiss a woman in plain sight of a thousand people? If he had wanted to kiss her, he might have done so a thousand times already, without breaching proper conduct!

“Is is custom in Rohan,” Éomer added to her continued silence. 

“It is not custom here.”

“Well—I have already said I was sorry. I did not know.”

“Evidently not.” Lothíriel bit her lip, immediately regretting the spite in her voice. But Éomer only shook his head. 

“You might have told me,” he said. 

She arched a brow. “Oddly enough, it never came into any of our conversations. What should I have said?— _ Oh, look—those men have taken our horses—and by the by, married couples in Minas Tirith do not kiss in public view.” _

“Yes, that is exactly what you should have said,” Éomer said dryly. “And straight after, you might have explained the blunder your cousin made when he kissed  _ my _ sister on the city walls.”

“You can hardly lay Faramir’s actions at my feet,” Lothíriel protested.

“Anyway—now I know. You may expect nothing but impeccable behavior from  _ me _ .”

She did not like the sight of his frown, nor the shutting away of expression in his eyes. That wall between them—that unwillingness to breach beyond their constant bickering—was holding strong. It gave her an odd feeling of loss, but she did not know what she was in danger of losing. 

“I suppose it goes against custom for a man to kiss his bride in private, either.” Éomer did not know what caused him to say this, and try as he might, there was no stopped the undercurrent of resentment in his voice. Lothíriel lifted her chin in the air, crossing her arms across chest despite the action pulling the neckline of her shift lower. He tried not to notice, to little avail.

“Well!” she said stiffly. “ _ I _ will not be forcing you to kiss me.” But she certainly wanted him to.  _ That  _ she would never admit, even were she put on the rack and tortured. His eyes were dark in the dim light of the bridal chamber, and Lothíriel again swallowed nervously. 

It was not how she had expected her summer to end.


	2. A Wager on Cheese

_ Several months earlier. _

It was a beautiful spring morning; the first truly warm day of the year. Lothíriel bounded from her chambers in a fit of excitement—she felt incomprehensibly and enormously lucky. Amrothos had promised to take her for a ride up in the mountains, and after many months of being cooped up at home while winter raged, she was more than ready to have a wonderfully carefree ride to usher in the summer.

“You are looking happy,” Amrothos remarked with a glint in his eye. They fell into step together in the echoing courtyard of their father’s house.

“I  _ am _ happy,” she said tartly. “Why should I not be? I anticipate escaping Minas Tirith with nothing but pleasure. And—” Lothíriel added as the doorward hastened to open the gate for them, “—I have decided that I will never winter away from Dol Amroth again. There it may rain, but at least the rarest of dry days are warm enough to step outside!” Her brother chuckled at this, and she preened.

The stables were only a short walk away. Sunlight warmed her back as they wandered down the street, and she could not help giving a contented sigh as they entered the musty stables. 

Lothíriel did not waste time greeting her mare, cooing and stroking the mare’s nose as Marilla whinnied in welcome. “I hope you have not been growing too fat on oats,” she told Marilla severely. “For we are going on a good, hard ride today!” She unlatched the stall, and immediately set about to saddling her mare. It had been many months since their last ride together, but the routine was familiar and quickly finished. 

“I think you  _ have  _ gotten fat,” she murmured, adjusting the straps around Marilla’s belly. “Do not become too used to it!”

Lothíriel led Marilla through the stall door, the warm leather reins feeling good and familiar in her hand. “Are you ready, Amrothos?” she called across the stable. “I—” But she stopped short. For in the entrance, where the doors of the stables were thrown open, the King of Rohan was leaning against the doorframe, looking utterly at east. There was no mistaking him, though he wore the plain clothes of any Rohir. His features were too recognizable, from his shining golden hair to the strong jaw which bore a neat beard. Her hands clenched over the reins. 

Éomer’s appearance at the stables at that moment was pure happenstance. He had tried to escape the Citadel earlier in the morning, sensing a warm day in the offing, but had been delayed by his captain and a necessary stack of paperwork. But he could hardly complain—now he could guiltlessly leave his duties behind and enjoy the day. 

Happening upon Imrahil’s youngest children was unexpected. But it was no bad thing—Amrothos he considered a friend, and Lothíriel—well, she was another thing entirely. He saw a flush rising up her face, and could not stop a grin from forming. 

“Oh! Good morning, Éomer!” Amrothos said, glancing over as he led his own stallion out of a stall. 

“Good morning! I see you are on your way out,” Éomer said casually. 

“Indeed. Lot and I are headed up into the mountains.” The prince stopped next to his stiff sister, noting her obvious discomfort out of the corner of his eye. Now what was that about? As far as Amrothos knew, Lothíriel and Éomer had barely ever exchanged pleasantries. How interesting… 

“Just the two of you?” Éomer asked. 

“Yes,” Lothíriel said, speaking for the first time. She did not know what this king was hiding behind his smile, but she did not trust it. No man could be this handsome and not know it. His eyes held hers for an awkward moment before he spoke again.

“I was going out myself. Would you mind very much another companion?”

“Y—” she started to say, but Amrothos cut across her. 

“Not at all! We should very much like your company.”

Forced to wait as the king disappeared into a stall to saddle his horse, Lothíriel grit her teeth together in annoyance. That she had no true reason to be so uncomfortable in Éomer’s presence did not help. He had never done her wrong—unless she could consider her embarrassingly intense attraction for him  _ his _ own fault. She certainly would like to. 

Éomer was whistling under his breath when he joined the others with Firefoot trailing behind him. He had not failed to notice the irritation flitting in the princess’s lovely eyes, but it amused him more than anything. She was pretty when she was upset. He had always thought so, too—ever since he had witnessed her cuff a young man across the face at a feast in Merethrond. He had never discovered what had prompted her response, but his niggling curiousity remained…

“Let us go north-east along the Anórien Road,” Amrothos said as they led their horses to the street. “There are several villages we can pass through the mountains—the area surrounding the Stonewain Valley boast the best goat cheese in all of Gondor. If we ride hard, we can find an inn or tavern by noon.”

“How can you be thinking of luncheon so early?” Lothíriel protested, heaving with effort as she mounted Marilla. Evidently the winter of inactivity had affected her, too!

“A man must always think with his stomach, princess,” Éomer told her sagely, looking too smug to be allowed atop his massive stallion. “He can never be certain when his next meal will be.”

“Nonsense! During a war I would allow for that, but that is quite over.”

“There are many things which could happen to delay a meal,” Amrothos said as they began their trek north on the white-stone road. Their hoofbeats were loud, and so he raised his voice, turning slightly in his saddle to glance at his companions behind him—his sister looking none too happy to be beside Éomer, and Éomer, hiding a smile. “One of our mounts could pick up a stone, we could be set upon by bandits, it might rain—the possibilities are endless, truly.”

“But it is  _ hardly  _ likely!” Lothíriel argued. “I have never seen a sunnier morning in all my life, and Elessar has eradicated all nests of bandits in the mountains! I am sure we will be safe.”

“Still—” Éomer began. But the princess pursed her lips in his direction, and he stopped in surprise. 

“If you are so worried about your next meal, you ought to have brought a meal in your saddlebags,” she said coolly. Éomer met her eyes again—her chin was set, and there was stubbornness in every line of her face. He grinned as Amrothos broke into laughter ahead of them. 

“Ever the sensible one! Very well, Lothíriel, let us make a wager. If all goes well and we are fed and watered at the finest inn at luncheon, it will be your win! But if disaster strikes…” Amrothos thought quickly, and a sly smile spread across his face. “It would be only fair if you promise to heed mine and Éomer’s ever caution in the future.”

“That is ridiculous,” Lothíriel said, unable to keep a hot flush from building. “Disaster is not at all likely!”

“Then you have nothing to lose.”

“I can certainly lose on an off-chance,” she pointed out. “I have no desire to heed yours  _ or _ Éo—er, _ the king’s  _ caution. I do not doubt I would be made a fool of at every chance.” 

Lothíriel bit her lip, horrified at her own blunder—she had nearly called the king by his given name! And he had never invited her to.  _ My own fault for thinking of him so familiarly _ , she thought bitterly to herself. 

“I would never make a fool of you,” Éomer leaned close to murmur. “A-purpose, that is.” He liked the scowling twist of her lips, and he liked that she had stumbled on her words. So she had nearly called him by his name? A minor detail, but a telling one. Why would this princess think of him by name? “An excellent wager,” he said more loudly to Amrothos.

Lothíriel gave a huff of annoyance, spurring her horse on to ride beside her brother. Éomer watched in interest. The day had taken a very promising turn.

Afternoon light filtered through the lush trees, shining on the remains of a hearty meal and the lazy bodies strewn across the clearing. Éomer lay on his back, fingers laced behind his head as he watched the princess out of the corner of his eye. She was sitting against a tree, absently fiddling with the end of her long black braid, staring off into the middle distance. Whether Lothíriel was aware of his scrutiny, he did not know. But he enjoyed watching her; she had a restless energy about her, not unlike her brothers, as if she were waiting impatiently for the next adventure. Or, Éomer considered wisely, the next argument.

Lothíriel liked to bicker, he had learned. 

“What say you, Éomer? Was it not the best goat cheese you have ever tasted?”

Éomer reluctantly moved his gaze to Amrothos on his opposite side, where the prince sat nearest to where the horses were tethered on a low-hanging branch. “It was very good,” he said. “But I know little about cheese.”

“I recommend changing that,” Amrothos lazily flicked a beetle from his knee, “It is a most fulfilling hobby.”

“And a useless one,” Lothíriel cut in. 

“There are many a useless hobby in the world,” Éomer said, glancing at the princess in challenge. There was a flicker of movement in the forest behind her, but being more than a little entranced he dismissed it as a deer or such. “Cheese-tasting can hardly be the worst.”

Lothíriel’s lips were pursed. She did not like the glint in his eyes, nor how he was so handsome even when relaxed on the forest floor, dirt across his nose and at least one leaf in his golden hair. “You are quite right,” she drawled. “Wine-tasting would be the worst. One cannot become drunk from cheese.”

“Actually, there is a cheese made in Lebennin,” Amrothos said, forced to project his voice as one of the horses gave a loud whinny. “It is cured in rice wine, they say, and—”

“ _ OI _ !” 

Éomer started, glancing at the princess in astonishment—she seemed hardly the type to escalate into fury so suddenly—but she was jumping to her feet, her angry stare across the clearing—

“Blast!” Amrothos, too, was already on his feet, tripping over a loose root only briefly before running towards—

Éomer leapt up, fright and anger making his sight a hazy red; there were shouts and Firefoot’s familiar battle-scream ahead, he could see his stallion’s disappearing into the trees along with the other horses. They were being led—thieves!

And Lothíriel had said there was no danger of bandits!

Amrothos, being closest to the horses, was swallowed quickly in the foliage in pursuit of the bandits. Éomer quickly overtook Lothíriel on his longer legs, and he heard a curse under her breath as she stumbled. His heart was hammering—how in Arda could they not have noticed the approach of thieves? Why had Firefoot not given a warning—his stallion had avoided being stolen twice before.  _ Good bandits _ , he thought angrily to himself, and picked up his pace, holding his arm aloft to stave off branches as he raced across the rugged forest floor. 

It began to quiet around him. He could no longer hear the horses, and the loud voices of the bandits eventually faded. They were fast! Nor could he see Amrothos any longer through the trees. Their path was easy to follow, with broken branches betraying the haste of the thieves to move the horses. It went downhill and northward, away from the Anórien Road they had taken in the morning. 

There was a cry behind him. Éomer took a few more steps before skidding to a halt—Lothíriel! He had forgotten her—she must have fallen behind. Cursing himself and every bandit under the sun, he immediately turned, retracing his steps back. With highwaymen in the mountains, she would be in danger. Amrothos could protect himself better than his sister, Éomer guessed. He decided not to tell her that. 

She was sprawled on the ground, hissing under her breath as she held her throbbing right ankle. Lothíriel glared up at Éomer as he appeared through the brush with a wild look in his eyes. 

“What? What is it?” he panted, pushing the loose hair from his face.

“I—I fell.”

She did not understand what he muttered under his breath—but if she were to guess, it would be a curse upon her for being so clumsy. Lothíriel scowled at the man as he crouched by her, his hands reaching out as if to examine her ankle. 

“Stop!” she cried. “I am quite fine, thank you!”

Éomer lifted a brow. “Then stand up.”

Lothíriel bit her trembling lip, and full of righteous indignation, attempted to do so—she grasped onto the tree nearest her, pulling herself up until she stood on her unhurt leg even as her ankle ached in protest. “I am fine,” she repeated, though she felt anything but. 

“Good. Let us keep going, then.” He turned his back. There was a time for stubbornness and a time to accept help. He could only hope Lothíriel knew the difference. 

“I cannot,” she said in a small voice. 

Éomer paused only briefly before relenting. “Give me your arm,” he said, and without waiting for assent lifted her arm over his shoulders. She gave a strangled cry, her fingers digging into his shoulder as her opposite hand flew to his chest. 

“You are too tall!” Lothíriel objected. “I—I can hardly reach the ground! Put me down!”

Repentantly he did so, but it required significant crouching on his part. “Is it very bad?” he asked into her ear. 

Lothíriel shivered at his warm breath on her skin, and immediately she tried to angle her body away from his. But with him propping her up, it was nigh impossible. “It is not  _ very _ bad,” she said to cover the flush in her cheeks. “If I were home, I would merely put my foot up for a few hours, and I am sure it would heal perfectly well.”

“I am afraid you shan’t have a chance to put up your foot for some time, princess. Where is the nearest village? With an inn or a tavern or some other public house.”

“I—I think—where Amrothos bought his cheese is nearest.”

It took several minutes for them to find a stride—there was great deal of fumbling and bumping and sniping comments, until at last they could hobble together at a reasonable pace. Trying to ignore the soft body pressed to his, Éomer glanced up towards the sun above to ensure they were going south. A thin wisping of clouds was spreading across the sky, and a dark line was approaching from the northeast. Blast! Trying to urge Lothíriel on faster, he hoped with all his might that it would not rain. 

It was a waste of might.


	3. Chapter 3

“We do not serve the likes of you here! Out!  _ Out _ !”

Éomer barely caught hold of Lothíriel’s arm to keep her from falling as the innkeeper shooed them back into the muddy street. Desperately as he had wished to argue with the man—he was  _ not _ a bandit and Lothíriel  _ not _ his whore—he knew too well the appearance they must give after tromping around in the rain and woods for the last several hours, and so he had kept his mouth shut. 

Lothíriel was shivering beside him as the door was slammed in their faces, and the warmth and light from within was cut off abruptly. Only darkness surrounded them; dark and fog and misting rain hanging in the air. Rain had caused rivets in the dirt on her face, thankfully disguising that tears were now spilling onto her cheeks. 

“Well!” she said irritably. “What a rude man.”

“Hardly! He had only to take one look at  _ you  _ to know that we are wastrals. Travelling in the rain, no horses, no baggage, no servants!” Éomer snapped back, annoyance at the entire situation grating at his temper and the unwelcome distraction of Lothíriel’s wet clothes clinging to every curve of her body. How could he be distracted by such things at such a time? 

“I beg your pardon!” Lothíriel shot back. “But he was looking at  _ you.  _ He hardly spared me a single glance!”

He groaned loudly, pushing the hair plastered to his head back as best he could, in the circumstances. It was a definite setback to be forced from the first inn in the first village they had found. He had hoped that they could clean themselves, fill their bellies and purchase a horse or two before setting back to Minas Tirith. He did  _ not _ want to be stuck in the backwoods of Gondor with this princess any longer than necessary. Belligerent, ungrateful princess!

“Let us keep walking, then,” Éomer said dully. “Here—”

“No! I can walk now.” Lothíriel grit her teeth together, walking unsteadily as mud gushed around her boots, wincing every time she put her weight on her still-sore ankle. It was bad, but it could be worse. It was certainly not so bad as to admit to Éomer that she needed rest, though she would have welcomed it gratefully. 

It was a plodding pace, and Éomer checked his temper at the sight of her face. She was pale underneath the dirt, and her jaw was set—he guessed that she remained in pain. But her eyes flared in his direction, forbearing him from offering help. 

The road continued south. It was devoid of other travellers—the rain had likely driven most of them to seek shelter, and the sky continued to darken. Sunset would be approaching, were it not covered by ominous clouds. Éomer could not remember how many villages they had passed in the morning, but he was mostly confident they would find  _ something _ . 

“T—t—truce,” came a whisper behind him. Éomer stopped in his step, turning back in surprise to see Lothíriel far behind him—he had not realized he was outpacing her. She stood in the middle of the street, arms crossed and shivering pathetically as she gazed up at him. Oh, Béma—

“Truce?” he repeated. “For what?”

“You are angry,” she said, just as quietly. Her brows were creased. “I did not mean—”

“I am not angry,” Éomer told her, and with a sigh retraced his steps. Lothíriel nearly cowered as he stood tall above her—whatever he said, there was no other accounting for the dark set of his brow and the rigid back she had tried to match, unsuccessfully. “You are in pain?” he asked, in that deep rumble of his voice which, even with the space between them, made heat pool in the pit of her stomach. 

“Y—yes.”

And without asking, he swung her up into his arms. Lothíriel gasped in surprise, but he did not hear, or he did not care—one of the two. The seeping heat from his broad chest made her shiver again, but not with discomfort. Her ankle seemed to sigh with relief at the rest, and almost against her will she relaxed. Already Éomer was walking again with the same haste as before, as if she weighed nothing in his arms. 

Which she hardly did. He liked the feel of her, perhaps too much—and sternly he told himself to think only of the task at hand. They had to return to Minas Tirith as soon as possible; he did not want his sister or Lothíriel’s father to worry. But he did not know how many miles stood between them and the White City. 

Lothíriel, resting her head against Éomer’s chest, gave a little sigh that she hoped he could not hear above the pitter-pattering of rain on trees and the ground around them, and the sloshing of his steps sinking into the mud. Annoyed she ought to be, but it felt too nice to argue when she could simply close her eyes and trust her erstwhile savior… 

It began to rain again, and the wetness on her face caused her to wake some time later. She shivered; the side of her body not pressed to Éomer had grown cold, and the sky was completely black. Still he walked on, and as he noticed her stirring, said,

“I can see lights ahead. Just in time, too.” He had begun to worry for Lothíriel, falling asleep so quickly despite the discomforts of cold, damp, and being carried. Her face remained pale underneath the dirt, and Éomer had hastened his pace. He did not want her to become ill, along with everything else that had happened. 

Fortunate at last smiled upon them; the lights he had seen belonged to a small, respectable looking inn, and as it loomed over them he set Lothíriel upon her feet so that he could pound on the closed door with a fist. His arms were burning from her leftover warmth and the exertion of carrying her—he estimated they had come four miles since they last inn. If they were refused again he did not know what to do… 

A pudgy man opened the door, took one look at the beragged travellers and ushered them in at once. Ah, glorious warmth! Lothíriel, pressing herself close to Éomer as if for comfort as noise rose around them, saw several curious glances their way. They were a sight, she knew, but the princess in her rebelled to be looked in such a vulgar manner! Éomer paid them no heed. 

“We are needing supplies to return to Minas Tirith tonight,” he said loudly to the innkeeper. “Dry clothes, food—and horses, if possible.”

“Clothes and food we can supply, my lord, but it is nigh on impossible finding a horse to buy in these parts. We have heard of bandits up north—people are holding onto their steeds with unusually tight fists.”

Lothíriel wondered why the innkeeper called Éomer “my lord”; he was dirty and ragged as she. But glancing up to see his face—suddenly she did not wonder any longer. She shivered again. 

“We were set upon by those bandits,” he was explaining. “They took our horses. I tried to follow, but it began to rain and we were forced to turn back.”

The innkeeper scratched his beard. “Well—that is bad luck, and no mistaking it. We have just one chamber left for you and your wife. The storm has driven everyone inside, it seems.”

“But I am not—” Lothíriel tried, but Éomer cut across her loudly.

“Thank you, sir.”

She nearly cried aloud as she felt the heel of his boot press painfully into her toes in warning. Then from a back from a modestly dressed woman hurried towards them, her brows creased in concern. “Elric! Why did you not call for me? The poor girl looks dead on her feet—I have tea on the stove. Will you be staying with us tonight?”

“Yes,” Éomer said quickly. 

“Come on, then, madam—let us leave the menfolk to their business. We must get you warm and dry before you fall ill!” Lothíriel had no choice but to follow the woman up a rickety set of stairs, glancing back at Éomer in apprehension. He offered a flicker of a smile for her, but there was worry in his face. The innkeeper’s wife, who introduced herself as Meril, kept up a steady stream of sympathies on their trek down a dim corridor. 

“Whatever that husband of yours was thinking, taking you out in such weather! I suppose he’s the sort to lose his wits around a pretty face.”

“N—no,” Lothíriel said through chattering teeth. “There were b—bandits.”

Meril’s eyes softened as she opened the door for Lothíriel to pass through. The room was comfortably furnished, with a neatly-made bed and simple furnishings, but best of all—the fire in the hearth was already warm. It was blissful simply to stand near it, and she shivered, rubbing her arms with chilled hands. 

“Let us get you out of those wet clothes, dearie. I will have them cleaned and dry before you leave in the morning. I am sure I can find  _ something _ for you to sleep in tonight.”

Her knees shaking, Lothíriel gave in to the woman’s ministrations—her bones still felt too cold to function properly, and at the continued warmth she felt exhaustion sweeping over her in languorous waves. She was wrapped tightly in a blanket pulled from the bed, and commanded to sit in one of the plain wooden chairs by the fire.

“I shan’t be a moment,” Meril said, gathering up Lothíriel’s discarded clothing. “I will be bringing supper for the pair of you, too.”

“Thank you,” Lothíriel murmured. She was lost in a pleasantly warm haze, only half-wondering what was keeping Éomer. He must be searching out horses; they had to return to Minas Tirith that night or there would be quite the scandal… 

Meril returned with the promised goods, which revived Lothíriel enough to stand once more. There was hot water for washing and clean clothes, which felt luxurious on her skin. She cleaned away the mud and dirt of the day in sheer ecstasy while Meril set out two places at a small table with a covered pot which smelled divine. The fire dried her skin quickly, and with the other woman’s help, was quickly clad in one of two matching undershirts. It was clearly a man’s shirt, long enough to cover her somewhat decently. The stockings were meant for a man, too; reaching up to cover her knees. With a sinking heart, Lothíriel saw a few inches of bare leg showing, and her cheeks flamed to think that Éomer would see her like this. No! He mustn’t! 

“Are you feeling better?” Meril asked, tilting Lothíriel’s chin upwards as if to determine her health. 

“Quite fine, thank you,” she managed to say. “I thank you for your generosity—the afternoon has been miserable!”

“Poor child—I’ll see that your husband is up soon. If you are in need of anything else, you have only to ask!” And Meril bustled out with a final smile, leaving Lothíriel alone. 

Yawning, she sat again, using a borrowed comb to tend more to her hair—it had escaped most of the dirt of the day, though it was still damp. It was to this sight that Éomer entered the room only a few moments later. 

There was a burning flare in his stomach at the sight of her so scantily clad, her beautiful dark hair loose and framing her lovely face in a most alluring way. She blinked at his sudden appearance, and his throat went utterly dry. He closed the door methodically behind him. 

“Ah—” he started in a raspy voice.

“Oh!” Lothíriel’s cheeks flushed a deep shake of pink, and she dropped her comb in her haste to pick up a quilted blanket, which she tugged around her shoulders posthaste, holding it closed and cutting off the sight that Éomer felt was going to linger in his mind forever. He did not like this effect she was having upon him—it was the  _ last  _ thing he needed after such an unfruitful search for a way to return to Minas Tirith that night. The rain—the blasted, cursed rain—could be heard above them on the thatched room of the inn. His temper was as precarious as their situation.

“Why did you tell them that I am your wife?” Lothíriel asked bluntly, her voice loud in the tense silence around them. 

“Because I had no desire to be kicked into the street again,” Éomer said, barely disguising his testiness. “If lodgings are only given to the wed, then wed we must be. Evidently there is no chance of returning to Minas Tirith tonight!”

“We must!”

“Oh?” His eyes glittered dangerously in the firelight. “And why is that, princess?  _ You  _ may have recovered with your little nap, but  _ I _ am quite tired of hauling an injured woman around in my arms.”

Lothíriel’s jaw clenched, and furiously she retorted, “There was a noblewoman from Pelargir not two years ago who was forced to wed a man simply because they had shared a covered carriage!”

“That is utter nonsense!”

“It is  _ law _ ! You had best find another room if you wish to prevent our being forced to  _ actually _ marry!”

“There are no others,” Éomer growled. “We have already told the innkeeper we are wed; what will he think if we sleep separately? That will cause more talk, I assure you!”

“If they find out we are  _ not _ married—”

“Which they only will if  _ you _ continue blathering on about it!”

Lothíriel gave him a baleful glare. There were heated tingles crawling across her body which had nothing to do with the fire or her cozy wrap, and  _ everything _ to do with the expression in Éomer’s eyes when he had first seen her. How could she have been so stupid to forget to cover herself? At least now her shaking hands were covered from his view—

“I am tired,” he said, turning away from her. “I am going to clean up, if you do not mind.”

“I do  _ not _ mind!” Lothíriel said tartly. “In fact, I encourage it. You smell like you have been tromping about in the forest all day.”

He lifted a brow in her direction. “I have been.”

“Well! It is obvious.” She could think of no better retort, and settled upon sticking her nose in the air—but Éomer only seemed amused by her.

“You may want to look away,” he warned, but there was barely a moment to turn her head before he doffed his shirt. Her heart hammering, Lothíriel jumped to her feet to seek refuge on the opposite side of the room. The sight of his bare chest was too much, and her body responded with a hot flare of desire. 

She sat on the far edge of the bed, staring at the wall as she tried not to hear Éomer washing himself. Her hands shook, and she clasped them tightly around the quilt at her chest as her mind seemed to spin out of control. 

All the difficulties of the day; losing their horses, losing Amrothos, being forced to travel through cold and mud and rain, the fear of their lying being discovered, the anxiety of missing her father and her home and worrying of the repercussions that would come—and all Lothíriel could think was how blasted handsome the King of Rohan was! 

“Did you ask for anything for your ankle?” he called across the room. 

“N—no, I quite forgot.” She had forgotten—the respite from walking by way of Éomer carrying her had eased the pain quite a bit, though she knew that if not treated, her ankle might swell something terrible before tomorrow. Erchirion had had a similar mishap before, and she remembered he had not been able to put on his boot the day after. The telling ache in her bones did not bode well for her… 

A moment more, and Éomer said, “I will go. Stay here.”

As if she might leave! Lothíriel huffed indignantly as she heard him exit. But it was difficult to be angry with him; he was treating her better than perhaps she deserved. He was going to tire of her long before they returned to Minas Tirith, she was sure. A sigh turned to an enormous yawn as exhaustion caught up to her. Her eyes were growing heavy, and Lothíriel lay down upon the bed, sinking into the gloriously soft mattress with a moan of pure bliss. She was snug in the blanket, and the fire cracked cheerily… 

Éomer was stopped in his tracks a second time upon his entrance. Though this time it was a surge of protectiveness and affection he felt as he saw the princess, curled up in her blanket with her dark lashes covering her eyes. She was breathing slowly, and if he was not mistaken—fast asleep. The food was untouched. He allowed himself a smile as he locked the door behind him. He was glad that she was resting, for it had been a tiring day for them both. 

But her ankle still needed to be tended to. If it was not, she might not be able to walk in the morn, and if they could not find a horse, he would have to carry her into Minas Tirith. It was a sight and a delay he would prefer to avoid, if the actual carrying of her did not bother him—indeed, it was a pleasant thought. He liked touching her, more than he ought…

Éomer sat down on the end of the bed with a sigh. Lothiriel did not stir. In fact—he tilted his head slightly to better hear—she was snoring! They were soft snores, utterly endearing. But still he was hard-pressed not to laugh. 

Gently he pulled off her stocking to expose her bare foot. The herbal salve Meril had given him smelled quite pleasant, and he rubbed it into her foot as softly as he could so as not to disturb her sleeping. Swallowing uncomfortably, Éomer began counting in Sindarin under his breath to keep himself detached from his task—many ankles he had bound in his lifetime, but none so pretty as this one, nor belonging to so enticing a woman. Sternly he began counting again, wrapping the soft bandage around her ankle as quickly as he could. Then he replaced her stocking, pulling it over her foot, the bandage, and up the to cover the softness of her calf—

Béma! He hoped he never had to do  _ that _ again. Quickly he stood, trying to shake the heat out of his veins. 

The quiet in the chamber was making him yawn. He trudged back to the table for his supper, and after shrugging out of his muddy boots and trousers, Éomer returned to the bed with weary limbs. They needed to depart early so as not to arouse suspicion in Minas Tirith for their delayed return…but these thoughts were fading from his mind. Lothíriel’s warmth in the bed lulled him. With a final yawn he rolled onto his side, and was asleep a scant moment after he closed his eyes.


	4. I Divorce You

The first thing Lothíriel noticed when she was roused from her dreaming was a feeling of complete bliss. Her ankle was feeling perfectly well—no residual pain, and she was cozily warm from head to foot. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to stay comfortable as long as she could, and snuggled deeper into the blankets. 

There was a sleepy mumble beside her, perhaps in protest of her moving. Lothíriel’s eyes flew open in surprise. Éomer! Good heavens! One of his arms was slung over her waist and her head was terrifyingly near his bare chest—how could they have ended up so tangled in the night? And why did she not move away _now_? 

Because he felt too nice, pressed so close to her. Her entire being sighed with pleasure. His deep breathing soothed her, and without thinking she nestled into his embrace as his arms tightened around her, closing her eyes once more. 

“Lothíriel?” Éomer’s voice was hoarse as he blinked in surprise. Surely she did not _mean_ to be so close—his thoughts were still groggy, but he could certainly grasp that a woman to whom he was infernally attracted to was scarcely clad and in his arms. His pulse began to race, and his hand travelled lazily to her waist, ready to push her away. But he did not want to.

“Hmm?” Her face tilted upwards, the expression being nothing short of utterly content and fiendishly beautiful. Then her eyes fluttered open, wide and grey and tempting him to drown in them. She said nothing, though her lips parted as she sucked in a breath.

Could he feel her heart beating out of her chest? 

Mussed and bleary-eyed from sleep, Éomer was handsome as ever. Still as handsome with his face so close to hers—oh, good _heavens_ was he going to kiss her? Their eyes met and held in an single, magnetizing moment, their breath mingling—

A pounding knock on the door made them start. Éomer swore under his breath, pushing her away at last before leaping out of the bed. Lothíriel was trembling, and she clutched the blankets to her breast even as she reluctantly averted her eyes from his half-naked form. He opened the door, and she heard quiet voices. A moment later the door was shut. She glanced back up, unable to resist—and saw Éomer leaning on his arm against the door. 

“Elric brought our clean clothes. He says he has found us a horse,” he said, his voice hard. “Get dressed quickly—we can eat before we depart.”

It was a subdued pair that sat at one of the tables in the front of the inn. Éomer, his blood still simmering, did not wish to meet Lothíriel’s eyes again—he was afraid of seeing her disgust for him and how he had nearly kissed her. _Very badly done_ , he berated himself angrily. _Now she will only think of you a leech_ … 

Lothíriel, for her part, had lost her appetite. There was a heated pool of lingering desire in her belly, and she willed her fingers to stop shaking as she pushed her porridge around its bowl. 

“Eat,” Éomer commanded without looking up. “We may not stop again until we arrive in Minas Tirith.”

“I am not hungry,” she said crossly.

“You will be.”

“I would rather you not presume to order me around.”

Finally he looked up, and she felt a shivering tremor at the dark light in his eyes. “You are my _wife_ ,” he drawled. “I can hardly disregard your wellbeing.”

She bit her tongue, despite being rather inclined to stick it out at him. There were too many people around them also partaking of breakfast—she could not argue with Éomer without drawing attention. Not now. 

Meril had packed for them a cheesecloth full of victuals for the remainder of their journey, which she pressed in Lothíriel’s hands as they made their farewell. “Safe travels!” the woman said, and Lothíriel thanked her several times for her kindness before Éomer dragged her from the inn. 

The sun above was shining, but just barely through a thin cover of clouds. It was a watery sort of day, and the streets remained muddy—but it was not raining. Lothíriel breathed in the fresh, earthy smell, and to her surprise Éomer wrapped her free hand tightly in his fingers.

“ _Wife_ ,” he reminded her. She flushed. 

Elric directed them to a house some ways away, where a limpid horse was tethered outside the front door. “That cannot be our steed,” Éomer muttered. “The poor thing looks as though it ought to be put out to pasture.”

It was their steed. Lothíriel hung back as a man exited the house and struck up a lively argument for the price of the gelding. Privately she agreed with Éomer—the horse did not appear as though it would bear riders willingly. She wandered over to pet his nose, and he sniffed around her package of food as she stroked his matted mane. 

“Are you hungry, my sweet?” she asked in a low voice. “Here—” And disregarding whatever Éomer would think of her generosity, she brought out an apple, and it disappeared between the horse’s lips with surprising energy.

“Would you give me such attention if I was so decrepit?”

Lothíriel shivered at the deep voice behind her, but when she glanced up at Éomer she kept her voice neutral. “I would think a man would have more pride than to allow himself to be fed,” she said tartly. 

He merely grinned in return. “Mount up, princess. There isn’t a saddle to be had.”

“You—you bought him? Was it a good price?”

“A good price? Absolutely not!” Éomer scoffed. “The man should have paid _us_ to take the nag. This horse will be better cared for anywhere else than here, I am sure of it.”

Keeping a tight hold on their luncheon, Lothíriel swung herself over the gelding’s back, sitting primly as Éomer untethered the rope bridle. “Twelve miles to Minas Tirith,” he informed her. “And the weather should hold. Depending on the horse, we will arrive in the afternoon.”

“Are you not riding as well?” Lothíriel asked in surprise. She had expected that he would, and she flushed as he gazed at her with raised brows. 

“I am a far heavier burden than you,” he said. “If he bears you well and I tire of walking, then certainly. It is more important that you do not exert your healing ankle.”

A remembrance of the bandage which she had found wrapped around her ankle that morning kept her from retorting. She had guessed that Éomer had tended to her after she had fallen asleep, and the very thought made her flush. But had she been awake, she might have flushed all the more… 

It was still early morning, and birds twittered and sang in the forest around them. They passed a few other travellers—a farmer with a cart full of fresh vegetables, and a minstrel with a lyre on his back. Éomer greeted these men curtly, giving no indication of wishing to stop and swap news of the road. He was aware of Lothíriel behind him; too aware. No woman had ever had this effect upon him before, and to drive away the physical discomfort of her presence he walked faster, the gelding plodding along beside him. 

Lothíriel was looking anywhere but at the man in front of her. She gazed at the trees, found them uninteresting, glanced at the sky, squinted at the brightness, and finally closed her eyes altogether. But then the movements of the horse began to make her feel ill, so she opened her eyes and tried to keep them on the road ahead. But Éomer drew her attention anyway, though he had not spoken to her in some time and presented a relatively uninteresting picture. There was something about him…his golden hair, his broad shoulders and the clenching muscles in his arm as he held the horse’s lead. He was walking briskly, confidently—if there were a perfect walk for a man, Lothíriel decided it would be his. 

They came upon a stream, which she remembered from their ride the day before. “It is a further six miles,” Lothíriel informed Éomer indifferently, dismounting as he paused. The gelding was too happy to be led to the stream, and Éomer tied the bride upon a low slung branch just off the road. 

“High time for luncheon,” he said, keeping his eyes away from the trim form of the princess as she wandered further into the woods. 

“There is a fallen tree here—we can sit.”

Lothíriel unwrapped the package of food from Meril with trembling fingers, affecting complete ease. Éomer sat on the fallen tree beside her—not very near, but far too close for real comfort; though she reflected that even being in the same country as him was likely to set her nerves afire for the next several weeks, if not months. 

“More goat cheese,” she informed him. “Rye bread, but the looks of the color—and an apple.” She passed the majority of the victuals to him in a handkerchief, which he took. Their fingers just brushed. Her cheeks flooded with heat, and Éomer cleared his throat. 

“Er—thank you.”

“Mmm.” The next minutes were filled with more silence. Lothíriel could not bear it; she did not care much for silence in the general way, and the tenseness between them was on its way to driving her mad! So they had nearly kissed—it was hardly an event to alter their lives forever! They could maintain a perfect friendship in spite of it. 

“Well,” she said lightly at last. “I suppose we are far away from the inn now.”

“Yes.”

“Then my conscience is clear. I divorce you, Éomer of Rohan.” Despite herself, Lothíriel smiled as their eyes met at last—the awkwardness dissipated, and after he blinked in confusion for a moment he threw back his head and laughed. 

“Those are words I never thought I would hear,” he said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Least of all from _you_ , princess!”

“Naturally! I would not be so foolish to wed you in the first place.” 

Éomer laughed again, though now it sounded hollow to his ears. He did not know, but an odd sense of loss was overcoming him. Well—what could he be losing? Certainly the farce of Lothíriel as his wife was no true sacrifice. Was it? 

“I look forward to a proper bath when we return,” Lothíriel sighed, as if to herself. 

“You are spoiled,” he said dryly. “I wish only for a proper meal. Walking such a distance on a mountain path is no mean feat!”

“You may ride then, if you wish.” Her tone had grown piqued. “You needn't sacrifice for _me_ ; I am perfectly capable of walking as well.”

“My ankle is not sprained,” Éomer pointed out with a grin. Lothíriel flushed, straightening her shoulders in irritation. 

“Well—true. But it has given me no pain today, and I am happy to walk.”

“Fine. Walk, if you wish.”

“ _Fine_. I will.”

The cool water of the mountain stream was mightily refreshing, and after they had drunk their fill and Éomer had examined the horse and deemed him rested enough to continue, they returned to the road and their journey. 

The forest thinned as they approached the city, and under the bright sun the afternoon grew warm. Lothíriel finally shed her outer vest, slinging it over the gelding’s back. Her tunic was modest enough, all things considered. Certainly it was not the most scandalous choice she had made in the last day. She did not miss Éomer’s quirk of the brow in her direction, but she lifted her chin frostily and did not look back at him. 

Finally—at long last!—ahead of them loomed the north gate to the city. There was a definite increase in activity as they neared it; people bustling around in and out of the gate, laden with bundles and baskets, hurrying stock animals along and making a great deal of noise and fuss. Their pace slowed considerably at this, and after a few frustrating moments trying to navigate through the crowd, Éomer threw the bridle over the gelding’s back. 

“Let us ride,” he said, mounting the horse in a flash. “Anything to get us through this chaos all the sooner—”

Lothíriel took his proffered hand and swung up behind him. They were sitting far closer than she would have expected; then again, it was a smaller horse. Éomer spurred the gelding into a walk, weaving through people and carts. She was nearly unseated at the sudden surge forward, clamping her arms around Éomer’s waist in panic. Above the noise she thought she heard him chuckling, and she scowled at his back. His warm back. He was very nice to hold onto; solid and safe and—

Good heavens! She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Éomer had been quite right; their height made it easier for them to pass through the crush, and soon they were trotting through a far-emptier gate to the Fourth Circle. They were attracting stares, and Lothíriel flushed as she hid her face from passersby. She was well-known, and she imagined Éomer was, too. What sort of gossip would get around…well, she had an idea. 

A shout went up as they entered the Sixth Circle. She could see the familiar pillars of her father’s house, and she let loose a breath of relief—at last they had arrived! Erchirion was sticking his head out of a window, waving them onwards, and before Lothíriel could say anything, the gate to their father’s house was thrown open and Amrothos hurtled out. 

“I—I am sorry!” he wheezed, holding onto the wall to keep himself upright. “I thought you were lost—Father has been rebuking me these last hours, _Lothíriel, save me_!”

She held back a laugh as Éomer dismounted in front of the gate. He gave the reins to Amrothos, reaching up to help Lothíriel. Éomer’s hands were warm on her waist, but his eyes were warmer—she blinked stupidly at him as he swung her to the ground. He was smiling, a sad sort of smile, she guessed, but did not understand. Then to her utter surprise he leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. 

“Home safe,” he murmured, just for her. 

In a daze she entered her father’s house, barely seeing Imrahil striding quickly forward to envelop her in an embrace. Lothíriel hardly noticed that Éomer had taken leave of Amrothos; she could not _think_ —

“My daughter!” Imrahil cried, holding her face in his hands. “I afeared you were taken captive or worse—”

“No, I am quite well,” she managed to say, forcing a smile. “I was with Éomer—he kept me safe.”

“But it has been hours! Amrothos arrived before dawn—are you well? Are you injured?”

“I am _fine_ ,” Lothíriel insisted. “We were only delayed because—because of the rain. We walked all night.” The lie came easily. She could not tell even her father, not even Amrothos, that they had shared a bed at an inn… Imrahil was pulling her forward into the house, his relief more than evident and not a little overwhelming. 

“Come inside, come quickly! Are you hungry? Or do you wish to bathe? Should I call for a healer? Do you need rest?”

Finally Lothíriel began to laugh, extracting her arm from her father’s tight hand. “I am _well_!” she said. “A bath, please, and then I shall be composed enough to return to normal hours, Father. There is no need to put yourself out for me—”

His eyes were shining with affection. “So it shall be,” he said, and he kissed her forehead, just as Éomer had. But it did not feel quite the same, and Lothíriel flushed in remembrance. “I am glad you have returned safely, daughter.”

“So am I,” she said with a tremulous smile. “So am I.”


	5. Imrahil Takes a Gamble

“This man is desiring an audience, my lord.”

Imrahil glanced up from his accounts, catching sight of his steward, and behind his steward—a man hovering nervously. He sighed to himself, but marked his place in his books before gesturing at the man to enter. The man scurried forward, bowing quickly as the steward closed the door. 

“Good afternoon,” he said kindly to the strange man. He looked to be a yeoman of sorts, certainly a working man—and a nervous one. He held a hat in his hands and was twisting it as his flitting eyes took in the sights of the prince's study.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” The man bowed again. “I am Halfast, my lord.”

“What is it you wished to see me about, Halfast?”

“My lord, I am from Anórien; I have travelled from my home to come to the city to apply for a warrant to sell my copper in the markets of Minas Tirith.”

“You must see Lord Faramir for that particular warrant, Halfast. I do not carry that power.”

“The—the warrant is not what I need to tell you, my lord.” Halfast shifted his weight uncomfortably, glancing at Imrahil’s steward standing silently behind him. 

“Go on,” Imrahil said wearily. 

“Not two days ago, when I was travelling, I stayed at an inn some twelve miles northeast of here. And I—” The man gulped, and said in a shaky voice. “You have a daughter, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“I—I have just seen her in the Fifth Circle, my lord. I heard her called by name by her companion. I did not know why, but she was familiar to me. Then I remembered.” Halfast’s hat was a wad in his hand. “She—she was at the inn the same night as I.”

Imrahil did not like where this man’s story was going. He did not want to think that Lothíriel had lied to him... “Was she with anybody?” he asked, though he could guess the answer. 

“Yes, my lord. A tall man—one of the Northmen, I believe.”

“Do you know his identity?”

“No, my lord.”

Imrahil kept his face expressionless. “Did they spend the night at the inn, Halfast? They might have merely taken a meal there.”

Halfast shook his head. “They—they exited out of a chamber as I came out of mine. We passed in the corridor.”

“Is it possible that they did not share the chamber during the night?”

“I—I do not think so. The man, I heard him call her _wife_ while they ate their morning meal. I thought nothing of it—there were no odd appearances,” Halfast said quickly. “But when I recognized your daughter, I could not recall a marriage being announced…” 

“I thank you for your report, Halfast,” Imrahil said, ignoring the last comment. “My steward will see you out—and properly compensated for your silence.” He gave the man a beady look, and Halfast bowed a third time, sweat breaking out on his brow. 

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

After the door was safely shut once more, Imrahil slouched back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. This was a situation he had _not_ expected to have to deal with. He would not have expected it of his daughter—but he would not have expected it of Éomer, either. Surely there were other issues at play. They had travelled a great distance in the rain, after all, and Lothíriel had been injured. Perhaps they had been too exhausted to continue on without a rest. But that did not account for _sharing_ a chamber. Still, he loved his daughter and would trust Éomer with her life; he would give them the benefit of the doubt.

He rang a bell, and a page entered the room. “Send for my daughter, please.”

* * *

Lothíriel did not like her father’s expression. He was not smiling. That was rare enough in itself, for he had always shown her a great deal of affection, but the hardness in his eyes nearly overwhelmed her with shame. 

“So, it is true?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

Imrahil was silent for a moment. Then in a heavy voice, “Please explain.”

She did so, nearly stumbling over her words in her haste to make her father understand—there had been little choice in the matter! And she and Éomer had done _nothing_ apart from sleep in the same room. Lothíriel quieted when she finished. She had obviously omitted how they had woken completely entangled, and nearly done what _would_ have required a hasty wedding… 

“I see.”

Lothíriel wrung her hands in her skirt, subdued with embarrassment. 

“Well,” Imrahil said slowly. “Lothíriel, you know the law…”

She felt blood drain from her face, and cried out, “We did _nothing_! We did not tell anyone our identities—”

“And yet you were recognized. And if one man recognized you, who is to say that others who witnessed your behavior will not either?”

Lothíriel bit her tongue, tears springing to her eyes. No retort was forthcoming. Imrahil leaned forward, his elbows on his desk as he lacing his fingers together. The misery in his daughter’s face was too much for a father to bear, and he sighed before softly asking, “Do you care for Éomer?”

She blinked at this sudden change, unable to keep her cheeks from flushing red. 

“Hmm,” Imrahil said. Perhaps the situation was not so dire as he had initially thought. Éomer was a mighty catch for any woman, and if that woman were Lothíriel...well, neither of them could marry better. He had been considering how he might smooth over the situation without drawing attention to the matter or necessitating a marriage, but if she cared for Éomer and he for her… 

“You may leave,” he said at last, and gave his startled daughter a smile. She stood, and shaking out her skirt she blurted, 

“I am sorry, Father.”

“It is quite alright,” Imrahil assured her. “Your judgement was sound. We can only blame the circumstances.” Lothíriel kissed him in farewell, and after he was certain he could not hear her retreating footsteps any longer, he sent for Éomer. 

* * *

“It is _law_?” Éomer was horrified. He recalled the story Lothíriel had told him of the noblewoman forced to marry to avoid scandal, but he had paid it little heed. It was simply too strange, and yet, Imrahil was confirming it. “But—but I am not a citizen of Gondor,” he said quickly. “I am not bound to the laws and customs here.”

“No,” Imrahil said after a pause. “But my daughter is, and your actions took place on Gondorian soil.”

Éomer felt his head rushing with confusion—it was simply too much information at once! Surely...surely Imrahil would not force _him_ to marry Lothíriel. Though the idea was rather appealing, to have the lovely princess around him always… He shook himself. “You do not trust my word, then, that we are innocent?” he said in a hard voice.

“I do trust your word, Éomer,” Imrahil said. “But others will not. If word of your...adventures is passed from ear to ear…”

“There is always gossip! There would be no proof!”

“There is proof. There is a witness. More than one, perhaps.”

Éomer clamped his mouth shut.

Imrahil waited a moment, and then raised a brow. “Is the idea of marrying my daughter so terrible?” he asked. “Do not hedge, Éomer; I know her temperament quite well.”

“Er…” He would have very much liked to hedge, but relented. “I do not _dislike_ Lothíriel...exactly.”

Imrahil’s suspicions were confirmed. He was not blind to Éomer’s awkward shifting in his chair, nor the way the king’s fingers clenched on the armrests. He was not a gambling man, at least in a monetary sense, but his political risks had paid him well over the years. It was a briefly agonizing decision of if he could wager his daughter; if he was wrong, he would be condemning her to a lifetime of misery. But he was rarely wrong. 

“Well!” Imrahil said with a sigh, barely disguising a smile. “You are not a citizen of Gondor, ‘tis true. Nor would I wish to compel you into action. I only fear for Lothíriel.”

Éomer blinked.

“If gossip _does_ get ‘round, she will be shamed.”

His hands were sweating. 

“Go on, then,” Imrhil said, waving hand lazily towards the door. “I must put my mind towards finding a man to marry her as soon as possible—before any chance of your, ah, _adventure_ becomes known.”

“I will marry her.” The words were dry in Éomer’s mouth, and his stomach was turning with anxiety and foreboding and beneath that, a realization that she could be his...in _all_ ways. That yearning that had begun at the inn, to hold her in his arms...

“That is settled then!” Imrahil said jovially, standing up with a flourish. Numb, Éomer stood as well, and his hand was wrung by the prince. “I will be honored to call you my son.”

“Er…”

“Lothíriel is in our receiving room; you may go speak to her, if you wish.”

Imrahil watched Éomer’s retreating back with a great deal of satisfaction. Everything had settled so wonderfully into place. His daughter would be a queen! It could not have gone better if he had planned it himself. 

Speaking of, he had a wedding to plan. 

* * *

Lothíriel’s tears had dried on her cheeks. She sat morosely upon a window seat, staring out of a window and to the street below with unseeing eyes. All she could think of was Éomer. Was her father going to speak to him? Surely he would! But Imrahil would not force them to marry...her father loved her! He would do no such thing! And Éomer was a king; he could hardly be commanded by a foreign prince… 

They had done _nothing_! Her belly twisted with the injustice of it all, and perhaps a little bit with a sighing regret that they _had_ done nothing. She wished Éomer had kissed her...then maybe she could look forward to the possibility of marrying him with less trepidation. If they were forced to marry, she was certain that he would resent her forever. And she could not bear it, not when she cared for him so much… 

Éomer, entering the chamber without bothering to knock, did not know all this. All he saw was his princess, looking positively miserable and defeated, and his heart wrenched in his chest. 

“Lothíriel.” he said softly. She turned, blinking in surprise before swinging her legs over the seat to sit properly, folding her hands in her skirt. 

“Éomer.” Her tone was polite. 

He wanted to take her in his arms, he wanted to kiss those flushed cheeks until she smiled again. “Well?” she asked tonelessly. “Are we to marry, then?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met briefly, and then they quickly looked away. Remarkably similar feelings were assailing them each—the joy that might have come from being wed to someone they loved and the despair of it being forced rather than a willing choice made two hearts thump uncomfortably. Lothíriel was first to break the silence.

“I am sorry. I am sorry that I have ruined your life.”

Éomer shook his head. “It would take far more to ruin my life, I assure you.”

Was he implying that she was meaningless, then? Lothíriel’s temper flared, and she retorted angrily, “Well! Do not tempt me to try, then!”

Taken aback by this abrupt change, Éomer stared at the woman to be his bride. There was no sign of affection which he had dared to hope for. Only resentment, and a flashing premonition of a lifetime spent in regret for their single night of folly. Would she always punish him for his trying to care for her, for protecting her? His own temper was smarting. 

“Believe you me,” he growled. “I regret our adventure entirely! Had I known this would happen, I would have left you to the bandits!”

Her lips curled into a snarl, and she stood—her hand found a vase full of freshly cut flowers on a table nearby, and before he could say anything else, Lothíriel picked up the vase and threw it at him with all her might. 

_Crash_! Éomer ducked in time, and the vase shattered against the wall, raining shreds of flowers and water upon his head. He looked a complete fool, and were she not so angry, she might have laughed at the sight. He might have laughed another time, too… A twist of pain for the future they would never have made her eyes sting with more tears. Lothíriel stomped her foot at the sight of his baffled face and shouted, 

“Get out! Go away, you—you—!” 

Éomer sent her a final, quelling glare, not hesitating to obey. The slam of the door behind him broke something within her, and she sunk back into her seat, weeping bitterly. 


	6. A Surprise Purchase and a Few Reactions

Amrothos was whistling to himself as he strode into the courtyard of his father’s house. He had recently learned a number of things which amused him greatly, and he was intending to have a great deal of fun with them. It was difficult for a man of his temperament to take anything seriously; he certainly was not going to start trying now.

His sister was in the gardens, appearing as though she was attempting to read but clearly failing miserably—a leaf had fallen on the page she was staring at, and her eyes were not moving. 

“Hullo, Lot,” Amrothos said cheerily, striding over to sit upon the stone bench next to her. She stirred at his approach, glancing up with wide eyes before slumping back down. Perhaps hoping he was somebody else? “What are you reading?” he asked with interest.  
  


“Oh, um…” Lothíriel flipped over the book to read the cover. “ _Histories of Corsair Kings_.”

“Aha,” he said, nodding wisely. “An exciting book, to be sure. Say—almost as exciting as the news I received from Father this morning. I am to congratulate you!”

She shifted her weight uncomfortably, not bothering to even attempt a smile. As with every time she thought of Éomer and their impending marriage, she felt flashes of heat and nerves and resignation through her limbs. 

“My sister, a bride!” Amrothos sighed. “I look forward to the wedding. Although it is mighty fast, no?”

“Yes,” she said stonily. 

“It is fortunate Father suggested that Éomer make a brief journey to Rohan before returning to marry you—I suppose that way he will be putting things in order for your ascension to queenhood. Still—a month is hardly any time to wait!”

Lothíriel privately agreed, and despite Amrothos’s attempts as joviality, she sensed that he was enjoying himself at her expense, and she resented it. “I would rather not be teased at present,” she said with a sniff of disdain, closing her book. “If you intend to continue, I am leaving.”

“Why, Lot! You seem unhappy! Whatever is the matter?”

She could _almost_ hear concern in his voice. But the misery in her heart weighed on her. With eyes burning with tears and before she could stop herself burst out, “Oh, Amrothos! Surely Father told you _why_ we must marry!”

“Er, yes,” Amrothos said awkwardly, and patted her hand. “I am sorry I left the two of you, Lot. If I had known…”

“Oh, it is our own fault,” she sighed. “I do not blame you. We ought to have been wiser.”

This was not going the way Amrothos had wished. He had not expected his sister to be in such dregs! Casually he decided to put his theory to the test, and said in a light voice, “Still! I am usually a fair judge of matches, as you know—”

Lothíriel snorted in disbelief.

“—and between you and me, I thought I sensed some, ah, _tension_ between you and Éomer the morning we left on our ride.”

Her snort turned to a _huff_ of anguish. 

“But,” Amrothos leaned close. “When I saw that you had thrown a vase at him, I knew it was true love!”

Lothíriel burst into gales of laughing sobs. She covered her face with her hands, and his humor spent, her brother held her tightly in a half-embrace, ignoring the tears watering his doublet. 

“Oh, Amrothos!” she cried a moment later. “Trust _you_ to be so ridiculous at a time like this!”

“Like what?” he asked indignantly. “This is a wonderful time to make the best of a hilarious situation! All I see is a man and a woman who bicker enough to _really_ be in love preparing to marry. It is certainly no time to _mourn_!”

“I cannot help but mourn,” Lothíriel hiccupped. “Éomer does not love me.”

“Oh—I nearly forgot! I saw Éomer not a half-hour ago. He is at the stables; he asked me if I saw you to invite you to join him there.”

“ _What_!”

She bolted upright, the flow of tears ceasing completely as her heart began to race. She had not seen Éomer since that disastrous row three days earlier, and fully expected him to depart for Rohan without even a goodbye. He _wanted_ to see her?

Without taking proper leave of Amrothos, she jumped to her feet, fairly running from the gardens. He smiled indulgently after her, feeling like he had done quite a good thing. Two, if one were to count leaving Éomer and Lothíriel in the forest to make their own way home. Which he had not done a- _purpose_ , of course, but he would surely take credit for any successful outcomes.

* * *

“ _Marilla!_ ”

Éomer watched with some amusement as Lothíriel, appearing in the doorway of the stables, hurtled past him and straight for her mare, who was in a stall opposite Firefoot. He was not even spared a glance! Of course, perhaps she had not seen him—he was cleaning Firefoot’s hooves, which were in poor condition after his sojourn with the thieves. Lothíriel’s mare had naturally suffered as well, but Éomer had already seen to Marilla; combing burrs out of her mane and tail and rubbing dried sweat from her coat. Lothíriel likely was completely unaware of this; she was hugging her horse tightly ‘round the neck. 

“You came back!” Lothíriel cried. “Oh, Marilla, how did Amrothos find you?”

Éomer held his tongue. Amrothos, the deserting prat, had _not_ retrieved the stolen horses. Éomer had sent his own men into the mountains to investigate, and when he had received word the day before that they were being sold in a faraway village, he had sent funds for the purchase of all three. It would not have been right to leave Amrothos and Lothíriel’s mounts…Observing his soon-to-be bride’s relief, he was assured that he had done quite right. 

“You are leaving tomorrow?”

The quiet words were for him—Éomer glanced up. Lothíriel was not looking his way, but there was a flush in her cheeks as she rubbed Marilla’s ears. The mare was content with her mistress; standing still apart from an occasional nuzzling sniff at Lothíriel’s reticule. 

“I am,” he told her, keeping his voice indifferent. 

“I—I wish you a safe journey, I suppose.”

“Thank you. You are too generous.” Éomer’s tone was more sarcastic than he intended, and he was rewarded with a sharp look. Lothíriel kissed Marilla’s nose, and then left the stall and striding towards Éomer with her chin held high. He rested his arms on the top of the door to Firefoot’s stall, a brow quirked in expectation. 

“Truce,” Lothíriel said bluntly. Her eyes were large in the dim light of the stables, and the dress she wore was such a perfect shade of blue to make her skin glow. Éomer swallowed, tearing his eyes away from her neck.

“Truce,” he repeated hoarsely. 

Her cheeks a deeper red now, she rummaged through the reticule at her waist to produce an apple. “May I?” she asked. 

“Thank you; I was feeling a bit peckish.”

“For your _horse_ , you dimwit!”

Éomer bit his lip to keep from laughing, and nodded. Lothíriel offered the apple on the flat of her palm to Firefoot. But the stallion, still peeved at being kidnapped and adept at holding grudges, (and certainly a wise enough horse to realize that his master’s absence of mind which led to the capture in the first place had been caused by this creature), only gave the apple a disdainful sniff before determinedly nipping at her hand with his teeth. Lothíriel quickly retreated, saving her fingers from certain injury. But Éomer, embarrassed and not a little cross at Firefoot’s behavior, gave the stallion’s ears a flick with a reprimanding snap, 

“ _Dwæs hors! Hie is þin hlæfdige!”_

“I apologize. I should have asked first,” Lothíriel told Firefoot solemnly, and there was a strain of genuine repentance in her voice that Éomer had never heard before. But her expression was mournfully serious, and his irritation disappeared, he gave a bark of laughter. He received two separate glares of indignation for it, but neither bothered him. 

“I will be sure to remind Firefoot of his manners,” Éomer said, grinning at Lothíriel. “He is...slow to warm to strangers.”

“I gathered that,” she said coolly. “But really, such a handsome horse should be far more accustomed by now to being admired.”

Stroking Firefoot’s neck, Éomer was slow to respond. “There is little time for admiration in battle,” he said quietly.

“Oh—” Lothíriel could have kicked herself. Now that Éomer’s smile had faded, she wanted to see it again… The silence between them was nigh on unbearable; tense and waiting as if there were more words that needed to be exchanged. But she could not say what was in her heart, and she dug the heel of her slipper into the ground. 

To her surprise, Éomer reached over and picked up her hand. His eyes were warm as he brought her fingers to his lips. “I—” he started. Then, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Being you.”

Lothíriel did not understand him. She was not even certain if he had meant to be understood. So she merely forced a smile and said, “You are quite welcome. Well—I ought to be going back...my father will be wondering where I am.”

More unspoken words hung between them. Éomer felt a knot of disappointment in his belly; would he ever be brave enough to tell this wonderful woman how much she meant to him? It did not seem likely… 

“Farewell, then, princess,” he told her. “I suppose I shall see you in a month.”

There was a warm flush in her cheeks. Lothíriel nodded curtly, turned, and rushed to escape his bewildering presence. 

A month.

* * *

_Back to Present Time..._


	7. Allies or Adversaries?

Lothíriel woke with a definite stiffness in her limbs—she felt as thought she had not moved all night! Her left arm was quite numb, and as she shifted with a wince, her hips protested against use. What in Arda—

Oh. She remembered now: it was the morning after her wedding. 

Residual irritation made her frown, and the unbidden thud of her heart as she heard Éomer’s soft snores behind her brought new annoyance. It would not be _so_ terrible, having to marry the man, if her traitorous body did not respond to him in such a way! Already heat was spreading across her body at the thought of sharing a bed with Éomer. 

Not that they had shared it in _that_ sense. 

After their argument had burned out the night before, there had been only a simmering discomfort between them. Lothíriel had decided she would sleep in a chair, but Éomer had snapped at her not to be absurd. What would the servants think, when they entered in the morning to stir up the fire? Besides, they had already slept together once before. And so a compromise had been struck—they lay back-to-back, each on the furthest reaches of the bed, where logically it could be assumed they would be the _least_ affected by the other’s presence. 

But logic was hardly the prevailing force between two parties, when they were both frustrated in more ways than one and stubborn beyond a fault. 

Éomer felt the shifting of the bed as his wife rose. He had woken an hour or so earlier, but been unwilling to move—his thoughts were too tumultuous to think that he had any chance of facing the day with any sort of equanimity. Had he done wrong in agreeing to marry Lothíriel? He had thought, at the time, that he was doing the right thing—protecting her from the sort of gossip that inevitably rose from a situation such as theirs. But he would never have dared to tell her: she would likely rage and fume about how she did not need nor want his protection. It would not matter to her that _he_ did not marry her out of duty, after all, and there was his mistake—for he loved her. 

He peeked open an eye, and then quickly squeezed it shut, his heart hammering. What was she thinking, dressing in his full view! Likely that he was still sleeping. Béma take them both! Try as he might, he could not remove the brief picture his mind kept of her beautiful, naked back as she slid out of her nightdress. Éomer swallowed, feeling heat and discomfort in every vein and sinew of his body. He tried to suppress his imagination, but all he wanted to do was to trace with his hands the shapes of her delectable curves… 

“Wake up!”

Éomer started at the sharp voice, and opened his eyes to see Lothíriel staring down at him, now fully dressed in a fetching frock of blue, her brows creased. But what was that expression in her eyes? Could it be tender? Quickly it was put away as she lifted her chin, and she said,

“I am famished.”

“Go eat, then,” he said.

She was silent for a moment, nervously twisting the end of her plait in her fingers. “It would present an odd appearance, Éomer,” Lothíriel spoke in a quiet voice.

He understood her silent plea: a new wife without her husband would be subject to scrutiny. Whispers that she had not done her duty… Consummation was hardly a duty, Éomer thought bitterly as he rose, searching around for trousers to pull on under his nightshirt. For him, it would have been a singular pleasure and at least, an easing of the desire he felt every time he saw the blasted woman. But if she were not willing, it would be worse than a duty… 

It was a day full of false smiles. Éomer accepted the congratulations of those they met as best he could, but he was feeling rather tense. Lothíriel’s clenching fingers upon his arm betrayed her own anxiety—he would have bruises by nightfall, he was sure. But there was much to do, and it seemed many people to see. As they would be departing for Rohan the following day, farewells were made—to Lothíriel’s family, to Éowyn and Faramir, to Elessar and Arwen. There were a great many insinuating smiles, which only worsened Éomer’s ire. Everyone knew that he and Lothíriel had married practically under duress! Why did they all find such amusement in it?

He still simmered when they at last retired for the night. Their respective saddlebags had been packed and were lying near the door. Éomer stretched out on the bed, angry at this situation which was making such a fool of him—a chaste fool—he had no anticipation of Lothíriel ever warming towards him. But mostly he was angry at himself. He should not have shared a chamber with her, that night at the inn. He could have slept in the tavern. The stables. Anywhere! Then he would have been free…

If they had been free of their mistake, he still would have loved her, still would have wanted to marry her… 

Lothíriel, combing her hair in front of the small vanity, was suffering similarly. Loneliness squeezed her heart painfully. All her friends and family had given her up—she was leaving tomorrow, after all, and did not know when she would see them again. Promises to write were hardly enough to maintain a relationship! She would be living in a strange land, knowing no one apart from her husband. And _he_ was small comfort. 

“How long will the journey last?” she asked quietly, to fill the tense, hushed silence of the chamber. 

“Hmm? Er—two weeks, perhaps. It will be a slow journey, I am afraid.” Éomer decided not to mention that the plodding pace would be due to the caravans laden with her worldly possessions. He glanced over to see that her head was bowed and her shoulder slumped. Béma! What was this? He had never seen her any less than determinedly confident. With a rush of regret, Éomer swung his legs over the bed to stand, approaching his wife and leaning down to kiss the top of her head as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Which, in that moment, it was. Her overwhelmingly sweet scent muddled his senses for a moment, but he managed to say in a hoarse voice,

“Do not fear, Lothíriel.”

“Fear?” Her eyes snapped upwards to meet his in the mirror, an angry light shining. “I am not afraid.”

“Perhaps fear is not the right word, then,” Éomer said fairly. “But even the stoutest heart may feel hesitant to travel to an unknown place and—and become its queen.”

Lothíriel’s expression softened, and she bit her lip. “I am a little afraid,” she whispered. 

Her shoulders were warm even through her nightgown, and Éomer forced himself not to think of it—only the reassurance he sought to give. “Lothíriel…” he began, and then sighed. “I realize that perhaps we are not an example of marital devotion, at least not _yet_ , but whatever troubles you, I hope that you will confide in me. I will always be by your side.”

She blinked. _Yet_ , he had said.

“I know this is not your first choice,” he added. “But I would help you in any way I can.”

Lothíriel managed a real smile, unable to stop the shuddering relief of her husband’s words from slackening the tenseness in her limbs. She placed one of her hands over his, and ignored that he flinched under her touch. “Thank you, Éomer,” she said. “I—I sincerely mean it. I suppose…if I had to marry anyone against my will, I am glad it is you.”

He laughed aloud, bending over one more to kiss her head. “Beware speaking such grandiose compliments to me!” Éomer said. “My head may grow too inflated.”

“I shouldn’t worry for _that_ ,” Lothíriel said with her own laugh. “With the way we seem to infuriate each other, I am sure I will be insulting you far more often.”

“I look forward to it.”

And the strange way his voice seemed to caress those words stalled her laugh, and she stared at him in the mirror in bafflement. But Éomer merely smiled benignly.

“Come to bed, wife. Dawn will be here before we wish it.”

Lothíriel placed her comb on the vanity with a shaking hand—did he mean—? Or—? But when she settled into bed beside him, he only gave a grunted, “Good night,” before turning onto his side, facing away from her. 

Furiously she punched her pillow into place, finding the very edge of the bed as she inwardly cursed Éomer’s name over and over again. 

* * *

The journey to Rohan began as dreary and lonely as Lothíriel expected. Every night she and Éomer lay back to back in their own private tent, and every morning they rose irascible and frustrated, sniping at each other when no one else could hear. 

“I hope you slept well, _husband_ ,” Lothíriel snapped at him as he rose from bed, the third morning after they left Minas Tirith. “For your snoring kept _me_ from sleep all night long!” 

He scoffed, tearing his eyes away from his wife in her disheveled and admittedly appealing state to search out his clothing for the day. “I confess myself surprised that I _did_ sleep,” he said coolly. “For you were fussing and sighing all night as if there were bedbugs crawling about! I even considered holding you in place so that I could rest.” He did not add that he had resisted the impulse on the fear of being overcome by merely touching her. 

“If you had tried, I would have snapped your fingers!”

Éomer gave a hollow laugh, then strode to her side where he picked up one of her hands, examining her petite fingers with intense scrutiny. She tried not to be affected by his rough touch—and failed. Her skin tingled with pleasure.

“You could have tried, wife! Your hands are the size of a child’s.”

Lothíriel wrenched her hand away, glaring up at him as her cheeks flared with heat. “Better than—than having hands the size of a cavalry shield!” she said hotly. 

“I assure you, having large hands has come in use many a time,” Éomer growled. “And deterring any physical harm from my wife is certainly one of them.”

She blinked. His face was rather close to hers now—rather _too_ close as he leaned over her, and she could see every last bit of irritation flaring in his green eyes. It made her belly flutter for wanting to touch him so badly. But the absurdity of his last comment was causing laughter to bubble within her. A squeak burst from her mouth before she covered it with her hand, staring up at him in horror. 

His brow arched, and some of the hardness around his mouth disappeared. “What is it?” he asked, the ire gone from his voice and replaced with a definite self-consciousness. Lothíriel pressed her lips together, but it was no use—she giggled, and then gave a full laugh, falling back against the pillows as Éomer sighed. 

“What?” he asked again, more gruffly this time.

“You—” she wheezed. “What you said—utterly ridiculous! _Deterring physical harm from your wife_ —ha! I have never heard anything so _ludicrous!_ ” And she broke into more gales of laughter. 

Éomer was hard-pressed not to join her in hilarity. The tenseness between them had broken, and her laughter _was_ rather contagious. She affected him too much, to cause him to think that comparing the sizes of their hands was of utmost importance! He sighed again; would they ever cease to bicker? But that consideration slunk away from his mind, for he was watching his beautiful wife give into humor, exposing a charming pair of dimples around her laughing mouth. 

Their eyes met. Her laughter stalled, her cheek flushing in realization of their position, and—

He leaned forward and kissed her. 

Ahh……..it was too wonderful, too arousing; with a groan of suppressed and frustrated desire, Éomer reached up to tangle his fingers in her loose tresses. A soft whimper vibrated in her throat, and she was pressing herself close to him, and his blood surged with wanting. Béma, if he had known she would respond in such a way, he would not have resisted, that first morning at the inn… 

A sudden clanging of pots and pans falling to the ground caused them both to jump. It came from outside their tent, and someone shouted, “ _Sorry, sorry!_ ” Éomer cursed inwardly for the interruption, but with Lothíriel was gazing up at him he forgot himself entirely. 

“Éomer…” she murmured, and her fingers were gentle on his face. He did not understand. He did not know—

They could not do this. Not in a tent, not surrounded by a hundred people…not with such barriers between them. 

“We will ride out soon enough,” he said, his voice husky as he pulled away from her touch. He turned away, so that she could not see his shame. And so her choking tears were hidden from his views, and the barriers held.

* * *

The sun was bright. Marilla trotted with chipper steps along the road to Edoras, enlivened by the energy of the entire delegation. Mountains towered above them to the west, snowy-tipped and majestic, and the sweeping plains below were a luscious green with colorful patches of wildflowers. Many of the soldiers in the party were singing as they rode, cheerful songs of the Rohirrim which stirred the blood. 

Lothíriel sulked. 

Éomer was brooding. He could see the Mering Stream though it lay still a mile off; the glint of the water as it rushed along the border of Gondor and the Mark. He had ridden ahead of the group, mounting a hill for a better vantage. The breeze was pleasant, lifting the hair from his shoulders though not his cares. Though he would have denied it, his eyes travelled along the road to where he could see the form of his wife, riding alone amongst the delegation and too far distant to see her expression. Just the same, he would have given nearly anything to know what she was thinking. 

“You are a lucky man, sire.” Elfhelm drew rein on his steed next to Éomer, who gave his marshal a hollow smile. At his king’s silence, Elfhelm continued, “I am sure that the people of Rohan will welcome their new queen warmly.” 

Éomer grunted in agreement—he did not doubt Lothíriel fitting in well in Rohan; oddly enough, it was one of the few fears he had _not_ had over the last weeks. Her open temperament would put her at an advantage to the Rohirrim, as well as her inability to affect anything she did _not_ feel. He smiled wryly to himself, then—for he also guessed if anyone witnessed her taking him to task, she would win lifetime loyalties from those who remembered him as a child. 

“Say—who is that?”

Elfhelm’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Éomer squinted at the road. A rider broke away from a cluster and galloped for—for Lothíriel! He could not see quite who it was from the distance but from the seat of the rider it was clearly a man. Resentment made his stomach churn, and Éomer looked away, taking measured breaths. 

Well, what did he expect? His wife was beautiful and outspoken; of course other men might be interested in their new queen! Still, his temper was flaring, and with a bare farewell to Elfhelm, Éomer spurred Firefoot back down towards the road. Béma! He had to do something. 

It took far too long for Firefoot to gallop through that half-mile. As Éomer neared the pair, he saw Lothíriel smiling, and he scowled at the young man’s back. But then he heard her laugh, her beautiful laugh, trill through the air—he drew rein on Firefoot in surprise. The stallion huffed in annoyance, prancing in place as he slowed. A nauseating knot of disappointment and shame was in Éomer’s belly. He hated that _he_ could not monopolize her attention nor her smiles, but he could not, in good conscience, take any measure of happiness from her. 

Without the pair even turning to see his intended approach, Éomer turned Firefoot north and rode forward at a run, hoping that none would notice.

Éomer did not go unnoticed. The thrumming beat of his riding past some twenty feet away gave Lothíriel pause, her eyes flicking to his back almost against her will. 

“My lady?”

“Oh! I am sorry,” she said quickly, turning back to Aldred with a smile. “I did not hear the last part of what you said—”

“ _Hú eart þú_ , my lady.”

Lothíriel tested the Rohirric on her tongue, drawing a chuckle from the man beside her. “Your accent should improve in time,” Aldred informed her. “At least, I am hoping so, for the sake of Éomer Cyning.”

She gave a hollow laugh, privately musing that Éomer would be well-served with a bit of bad Rohirric grating on his ears. But she held her peace. “How does one respond, then?” Lothíriel asked. 

“ _Fægere_ _þancung_ ,” Aldred said, slowly for her benefit, “ _Ond þú_?”

The afternoon passed more swiftly than Lothíriel had expected; in fact, with Aldred’s easy company and the simple Rohirric phrases he had so gallantly volunteered to teach her filling her mind, it was the quickest day of the journey yet. Aldred was even kind enough to take her, during the supper hour when everyone feasted on dried meats and fruits and a baked flatbread, to meet several members of the party whom she had merely passed nods with in greeting. All were kind, amused at her accent without being cruel, and offering suggestions. 

One man called Elfhelm gave her stranger advice than the rest. “When Éomer Cyning is in a temper, you should tell him, _‘Beclýse þin múþ, ærse!’_ ” And there were sniggers all around from interested listeners.

“ _Beclýse þin múþ, ærse,_ ” Lothíriel tried, earning more chuckles. “But whatever does it mean?”

“Ah, he will tell you, little queen.”

She did not particularly appreciate being called ‘little queen’, as it felt an unnecessary reference towards her shorter height, and that was not yet their queen. But Elfhelm was too good-natured to keep her annoyed, and after taking her meal with her new friends, Lothíriel felt a certain bounding in her steps as she made for the royal tent. 

Éomer’s evening had been significantly less enjoyable. Watching his wife make friends with his people had caused a strange ache in his chest. It was not difficult to sense the source of his ache. He was jealous! Madly, profoundly jealous. _He_ wanted to make Lothíriel laugh; he wanted _her_ to enjoy his company, and he wanted—he wanted—

Well. He wanted her. 

When she skipped into the tent, smiling broadly though her eyes were far away, Éomer was sitting upon their bedroll. He glanced up, watching her fetch her nightshirt from her saddlebags. 

“Hello,” he said stiffly.

“Oh!” Lothíriel was startled to see Éomer; in his dark clothes in the dim tent, she had not quite seen him. His eyes were on her face, and she tried to smile despite the rolling nerves in her belly. “Er— _éalá_.”

He blinked stupidly. “What?”

“Did I say it wrong?” she said, her fingers clenching around her nightshirt in nervousness. She had bungled it entirely, she was sure!

“What—no! No, it was fine,” Éomer assured her hastily, though as his mind worked quickly, he felt a lifting of the weight on his shoulders. After an awkward moment he gave a bark of laughter. “Is that what you have been doing, then, wife of mine? Have you been bullying young men into teaching you Rohirric?”

“Well!” Lothíriel said stiffly. “No. Aldred put the suggestion to me; he asked if I knew any Rohirric, and when I told him that I did not, he offered to teach me a bit. No one _else_ had ever been willing to do the same.” Her tone was clear as day, and Éomer understood perfectly. _He_ had done nothing to teach his wife of her new life in Rohan. Well. That he could change, at least. 

“Come sit,” Éomer told her, patting the bedroll beside him. She considered him for a moment, and then obeyed. He tried to not feel the warmth of her slender body by his, and picked up her empty hand. Lothíriel’s face was pink, beautifully flushed, and he smiled. “I will teach you now, my sweet. There will be no need for further encouragement of—ah, _young men_. I will not shirk my husbandly duties.”

Her brow lifted at this. “Ah,” she drolled. “Well, go on, then.” 

“Listen carefully now, Lot—‘ _Fægen tógéane þú_.’”


End file.
